Untouchable (boyxboy)

Chapter 1

"Felix! Get your ass down here and meet everyone! And leave the freak-show here, or I'll kick your ass later, got it!?"

My brother bangs a fist on my bedroom door and waits approximately two seconds for an answer. When he doesn't get one fast enough, he yells some more.

"You hear me, loser? I'm talking to you! Now get—"

"I hear you! Jesus, Dylan. Calm down. I'll be there in a minute."

He thumps his hand against the door once more and then I hear his heavy footsteps retreating down the hall and descending the stairs.

I shut my eyes, take a deep breath, and let the pencil fall from my hand. It clatters to the desk and rolls in a slow half-circle across the sheet of manuscript paper. I've been jotting down the notes of my latest composition—a short piano solo inspired by the simple yet poignant music of Ólafur Arnalds—and now my concentration is shot to hell.

Not that Dylan would care. He thinks that classical music is 'gay,' and therefore unworthy of respect. Just like me.

As I push back my chair and rise, I find myself wishing again—for what feels like the hundredth time this week—that I was anywhere but here, trapped in this house with my brother and his stupid wedding plans.

The day he'd left to attend film school in LA was one of the best in my life.

Dylan, gone for good—or so it had seemed.

Meanwhile, I'd stayed back to take care of our dad. Eventually, I'd attended a small local college, earned an Associate's degree in music, and now I teach, play small gigs, and compose on the side.

Life is okay. I'm twenty-five, semi-employed, working towards a better future, and...not unhappy.

Then Dylan moved back after landing some slick advertising job in the area, and now—after a whirlwind romance of mere months—he's getting married.

The only light I can see at the end of this tunnel is that Dylan's bride-to-be comes from a wealthy family, and her father has pledged the down-payment on a house as a wedding gift. At least when this is all over, he'll be out of our dad's house for good.

I hope.

I, on the other hand, am a permanent fixture. Like some tragic nineteenth-century heroine, I remain here, caring for our ailing father, both unable and unwilling to leave.

The thing is, I love this house. It's tucked away in an old neighborhood in California's Bay Area, and it's the only reason we can afford to live here. It was built by my dad's grandfather, and we own it outright. It's small, creaky, leaky, and old, but I love it anyway. It has character—charm, romance—the sort of place for an artist to live.

Maybe I'll die here someday, bent over the last measure of a masterpiece, newly composed: an undiscovered genius, a brilliant flame burned out while no one looked...

Yeah, no. But a guy can dream, right?

Actually, I'm the first to admit my mediocrity. I love music, but I'm no Mendelssohn. If I end up composing more than background themes for cheap commercials, I'll be happy.

In the meantime, Dylan the Prodigal is downstairs, entertaining his fiance's family, and he expects me to join the festivities and prove that his blushing bride isn't marrying into a family that's been hiding some basement-dwelling freak all long. I don't get his obsession with normality. Normal is boring, as far as I'm concerned.

Reluctantly, I walk to my closet, pulling off my 'Doctor Who' shirt as I go.

My closet door has a mirror on the inside, and I try not to look at it as I pick out a drab pair of slacks and a blue-checked shirt. I even take care to make sure the buttons are properly aligned. Finally, I glance over and check my reflection.

I'm average height, and thin. I got more of our mom's Filipino looks than Dylan did, with medium-toned skin, dark eyes, and black ringlets of hair that she got from her Cuban father, and which I wear long because I'm a contrarian.

Dylan's fairer, taking after our dad, with straight brown hair that he wears in whatever style the current trends dictate for conveying hyper-masculinity—short with a fringe top at the moment. He has lighter brown eyes and more of our dad's Anglo bone structure and height, features he accentuates as much as possible by dressing like a Straight White Male.

My failure to fit the same mold has always irritated him.

When we were little, he used to tell people I was adopted, and since our mom wasn't around and he's a whole four years older than me, people believed him.

We still have a neighbor—Mr. Evans—who occasionally asks me if I've found my 'birth parents' yet. The only reason I don't hold it against him is that he's ninety-one and obsessed with genealogy.

Dylan thinks it's hilarious.

But my looks and his persisting falsehoods aren't why he hates me.

He hates me because I have the audacity to be non-normative.

I'm demisexual, and I'm gay. On top of that, I'm a loner, happy to spend my time in solitude, pursuing my own interests, all of which Dylan regards as wastes of time.

Worst of all, perhaps, is the fact that I dislike physical contact of any kind.

Hugs, kisses, caresses, the casual touch—no thanks. Hands to yourself please. The only time I can really tolerate it is if I've gotten to know a person quite well. Since I've never been good at making friends, and I'm even worse at anything like romance, I've seldom gotten to a point where I'm comfortable with more than holding hands.

Unfortunately, meeting the future in-laws is probably going to involve at least a few handshakes and hugs, and if I don't want Dylan to take his frustrations out on me later, I'm going to have to put up with it with a smile.

Fortunately, I've gotten pretty good at pretending to be normal over the years, and I'm about ninety-five percent sure I can pull this off.

So I take another deep breath, tie my hair back, make sure I don't have any crusties lurking in the corners of my eyes, don a pair of matching socks, and make my way downstairs.